“Only of not fishing and hunting, dearest, most perfect of mothers! You won’t put up papa to forbid my going with him and Rex!”
“Your mother is incapable of such an action. How little you know her worth! She is only waiting to be assured that you are to have my greenheart, with a reel that spins fifty yards of silk. She shall have it, Mrs Dene.”
“Is it as good as the hornbeam?” asked Ruth, smiling.
“The old hornbeam! do you remember that? I say, Ruth, you spoke of shooting. Really, can you still shoot?”
“Could I ever forget after such teaching?”
“Well, now, I call that a girl!” cried Rex, enthusiastically.
“Let us hope some people won’t call it a hoyden!” said Mrs Dene, with the tender pride that made her faultfinding like a caress. “The idea of a girl carrying an absurd little breech-loading rifle all over Europe!”
“What! the one I had built for her?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs Dene, with a shade more of reserve.
“Miss Dene, you shall kill the first chamois that I see!”